stitchfaced

[stitchfaced]

i REALLY disappeared on here kdghkdhgdkshg WOW uh. i am working on remaking this blog (as well as my multimuse) please bear with me for a bit!

[stitchfaced]

This morning there’s snow everywhere. We remark on it. You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.” We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind. As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don’t, of course. We never do. No matter. It’s the tenderness I care about. That’s the gift this morning that moves and holds me. Same as every morning.

Raymond Carver, “The Gift” (via flaowww)

[stitchfaced]

[stitchfaced]

[stitchfaced]

3tempo

[stitchfaced]

[stitchfaced]

myentropy‌:

“it’s all yours i promise. i didn’t really mean to get this for myself, so it really was yours from the very beginning, and i’m not really a big and avid fan of gathering plushies.” preferred to keep his appreciation of things within the confines of books and info-graphs.  thinks about the space in his room all bare walls and bookshelves. his casio was really the only giveaway to the sort of things he’s interested in and even then that was a stretch.

he hasn’t really given anything much of a personal touch has he?

“oh uh- i mean you don’t have too.” though theres still a lot of coins in his pocket, and how long did he subject fran to the same repetitive crane grabbing torture? “i still have some money left over if you want to try, don’t feel obligated to get me something. i know you’ve been watching me do this for a while..”

     "If you're sure... then, thank you." Fran nods, looking much more serious than this situation has any need for her to be, and tucks the small plush carefully into the pocket of her coat for safekeeping. She flickers through the layout of her dorm in her mind for a moment, tries to settle on a nice place to put it. The shelf over the desk, maybe...? Well, she'll figure that out later.

     “I don’t have to, but I'd like to," Fran says, head tipping thoughtfully to one side as she scans the small array of UFO catchers around them. It would be nice, if she could win him something nice, too. Like a little gift exchange... Hm. What sort of things does Fugo like, anyway...? Books, she thinks. Recipes with straightforward instructions. Nothing that could be won from these machines springs immediately to mind, though.

     Propping a hand up under her chin, she hums idly, digging her free hand into her other pocket to withdraw her own wallet. "...I'll bankroll it myself, since I can't be sure how skilled I am with this sort of thing. I don't want to push something on you that you won’t enjoy obviously, but if there's something that catches your eye, tell me. I'll do my best."

@strawberryrots​​​

[stitchfaced]

[stitchfaced]

Mint Cream Puff / Mint Éclair

[stitchfaced]

you know what truly disgusts me… being able to feel my own heartbeat. it’s bad. don’t need to actively know what’s going on in there. don’t need to feel that. it’s not any of my business

[stitchfaced]

[stitchfaced]

Take my lungs, take them and run Take my tongue, go have some fun And take the ears, take them and disappear Take my joints, take them for points Take my teeth, tear through my cheeks And take the nose go and dispose Oh would you go dispose, just go dispose

[stitchfaced]

ppl knock at my front door like I’m gonna open it

[stitchfaced]

     Her stitchwork more practiced than professional--motions so familiar they’re nearly as easy as walking at this point (’Repetition is an excellent teacher,’ her mother had told her on more than one occasion). The voice sounding several feet to one side of her has her tensing up in response, face blank but the set of her jaw rigid. Fran turns her head to the side then tips it up to eye the source of the voice, wary. Stitched index finger and thumb press tight around the excess thread. The gash on her calf, numbed by the silvery strand joining the split skin back together, slowly knits itself back together unseen beneath the surface.

     “...In terms of formal, structured medical training, correct,” she says from her spot on the ground, carefully measuring the syllables. Is he safe or dangerous? She can’t tell yet. “I’ve... observed professionals. Assisted.” Blue eyes narrow a little, mouth parting from its firm line again after a moment of consideration. “...Why.”

 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕   𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏   𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉   𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆   𝒂𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒚   ,   now   he   spectates   rapt   .   impulse   reaction   to   injured   girl   is   to   swaddle   her   in   his   arms   and   rush   her   to   his   office   ,   but   now   she   threads   .   .   .   something   through   split   skin   .   hush   until   she   finishes   her   work   ,   and   then   speaking   quickly   and   sharply   :   surgeon’s   intonation   ,   “   your   suture   is   impressive   ,   but   .   .   .   you’re   not   trained   ,   are   you   ?   at   least   not   yet   ,   “   he   can   spot   loose   knots   like   a   professor   .

@stitchfaced​   liked   .

[stitchfaced]

chikuma_riv

[stitchfaced]

never mind the fact that fugo missed the window of opportunity on white day by a day and a half, and no one really should ask about the current state of his kitchen as blue pea power stains at white tile and the soft grey porous painted walls beside his sink. (there’s still just that gut feeling that it’s not right to mix a powder with melted chocolate….that gut feeling was was *almost* confirmed this weekend.)

he followed a video recipe online, one for blue chocolate coated cookies and it beats the excess that comes from reading on a web page about family and tradition and why baking french macarons seems like the right thing to do in the middle of the week. though for fugo’s sake he had to struggle with following along. recognizing that with the slight gaps in the video, fugo had to make up through typical baking common sense.

on monday just before lunch he had picked his six most attractive pieces to present; dark blue with a shiny flat top and arranged them in a neat box. it doesn’t include the less unattractive ones, the cooked scraps, and the balled up bits of dough that he just baked as to not be wasteful. though they were covered in blue chocolate and stored in an airtight container in his fridge. something he and fran could snack on for later.

“i’m a little bit late, but this is for you…as a thanks.” fugo hopes that his taste buds weren’t shot over the weekend.

@strawberryrots​

      White Day has, in Fran’s eyes at the very least, always stood in somewhat neglected contrast to Valentines’ much more noticeable presence. There’d been a long stretch where she hadn’t been in the practice of giving chocolates on Valentine’s (kids used to make jokes about her obligation sweets in elementary school, something about finding a finger in there–which she always found such a stupid way to poke fun at her, but nevertheless), so it makes sense that it’s not a blip on her radar–why the day passes without her realizing its supposed significance.

     …Not that she’d forgotten that she’d actually made chocolate for someone this year–a gesture that she’d felt hopelessly out of her depth doing, but which had been accepted with such relative ease that she’d felt all at once embarrassed at the pressure she’d put on herself leading up to it and strangely relieved.

     …Still, she’s been out of the loop for so long, so it’s only when Fugo presents her the box (and several beats afterward during which she processes the situation) that she realizes what this gift is in reference to.

      “…Oh,” she says, blinking down slightly owlishly at it before pressing her fingers to the sides of the box to tentatively lift it from Fugo’s hands. She pries the lid carefully off of it to spy the neatly-placed treats within and feels her breath catch momentarily in the back of her throat. They’ve made food together many times, she’s not sure why thinking about Fugo making these on his own has her feeling… some sort of way (strange, slightly buoyant), but it does.

      “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” she murmurs, tipping her head down to study the faint sheen of the blue chocolate coating. “…But… thank you. What a nice colour…” She taps an index finger against one of the sweets and pauses, eyes flickering up to Fugo’s. “…Is it alright if I try one now?”

[stitchfaced]

Things I have loved I’m allowed to keep. I’ll never know if I go to sleep.